


An Occlument Heart

by BeautifulYes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Rare Pairings, Romance, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:44:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifulYes/pseuds/BeautifulYes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Snape knows that, usually, keeping a secret is the bravest thing you can do. But sometimes the bravest thing is to tell one. </p>
<p>Complete. Canon (more or less) up to the start of Book 5, when this story begins.</p>
<p>Nominated for the Fall-Winter 2013 HP Fanfic Fan Poll Awards!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Revise What Has Been False

**One: To Revise What Has Been False**

 

> It could have been another story, the one that was meant
> 
> Instead of the one that happened.
> 
> —Mark Strand

 

At 12 Grimmauld Place there was a clock in every room.

The grandfather clock in the ground floor hallway, of course, a cranky bastard that spat out bolts whenever Sirius passed. The pretentious _tock_ of its pendulum could be heard all the way to the second floor of the old drafty house, along with the intermittent thud of a bolt hitting the floorboards when the clock fired at Kreacher or a rat scuttled by.

There was the rusty clock embedded in the kitchen wall, which grated every time the spindly iron minute hand shifted with a _tick-scriiiitch_. The mantle clock in the dining room that would drive anyone mad with its hyperactive _tick-tick-tick-tick-tick_. The subtle self-winding pocket watch Sirius was sure he would find if he could ever open the bathroom drawer some long-deceased Black had magicked shut. The alarm clock in Sirius’s bedroom that kept a measured, quiet, normal _tick-tock, tick-tock_ all day, but at night kept him awake with its incessant sound, seeming so much louder in the dark, silent room.

In the guest rooms; in the pantry; in his brother’s and his parents’ rooms. Sirius knew them all.

At this moment, he was listening to the once-a-minute _tick-scriiiitch_ of the kitchen clock, while he swore and waved his wand in the general direction of a broken radio that was lying uselessly on the table. He picked up the radio, pointed his wand at the antenna, and it wilted like a cooked noodle. Sirius swore again, more loudly, and threw the radio down the table so hard that it knocked over a stack of newspapers, which collided with a jar of glass eyes, which skidded off the table and smashed on the floor. Glass eyes rolled haphazardly all over the place.

“Bollocks,” muttered Sirius. The clock _scritch_ ed again as he knelt down, using a mending charm to gather the eyes—Kreacher’s, presumably, God knew what for—and reassemble the jar.

He had just returned the eye jar to the heavy wooden table when something made him pause, with his head cocked, listening. It was the click of a doorknob.

It was upstairs. Someone was coming in! Sirius grinned involuntarily and rushed toward the stairs, knocking the eye jar to the floor again. But he stopped at the door to the stairs, reminding himself to be careful—it could be anyone; plenty of people were looking for him. He leaned against the door, listening, as the eyes scattered over the tile.

“Sirius!” The commanding voice upstairs was Dumbledore’s! Sirius grinned again, pulled the door open with a theatrical flourish, and dashed up the stairs. On the way up, he put on a serious expression to match whatever business Dumbledore undoubtedly had. No one came to 12 Grimmauld Place for tea and cookies.

But when Sirius reached the top of the stairs, his excitement plummeted into revulsion. It never ceased to disgust him, what the Death Eaters would do to another human being.

Dumbledore had his wand out and was magically supporting a limp form whose dark hair, matted with blood, had fallen into his face. Gashes in his grimy black robes revealed deep cuts crossing his body. But Sirius knew that the worst tortures left no physical mark; the figure lifted his head and Sirius saw Severus Snape’s eyes, filled with the mad emptiness that comes from too much time in a place without hope.

“Azkaban?” he asked without thinking.

“No. He has been acting as a spy for our cause for several years—that is, until Voldemort discovered his real allegiance,” Dumbledore explained shortly, following his usual pattern of telling Sirius only the most basic information, only when it was absolutely necessary.

Sirius would have said something about it, but Dumbledore was already walking purposefully up the stairs, Snape floating before them. “What room is best?”

Sirius kept two first-floor rooms clean and ready for visitors. He gestured toward the larger one.

“It took us some time to get him out of there,” Dumbledore continued as he transported Snape into the room, lifting the comforter aside with a wave of his hand and gently lowering the man, who winced when his back touched the sheet. “He knows things that we could not allow Voldemort to know.”

“Told them _nothing_ ,” Snape murmured angrily. “Your precious Harry, precious plans.”

“Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore said gravely, then spoke to Sirius more softly. “I do not think his life is in great danger from these wounds, but something to speed his healing would not be amiss. He’ll need to stay in bed for several days, I expect. And of course, even given his skill in Occlumency, we cannot risk …” He trailed off, glancing toward Snape writhing and muttering against the sheets, then turned back to Sirius. “It is imperative to the success of the Order that he not leave this house.”

Dumbledore paused for a moment to brush the hair from Snape’s face, looking very old. Then he straightened and said, to himself more than to Sirius, “I must go; there are many more things that need doing tonight. I’ll leave you to it.” And he left the room in a whirl of robes.

Sirius listened to Dumbledore’s decided footsteps recede down the staircase. The front door clicked, and he was alone with Snape. Sirius was not the type to enjoy having a man he detested at his mercy like this, and was instead bewildered to see how strongly he could feel pity for someone he had never pitied before. He thought of himself and James at Hogwarts, and tried not to feel ashamed. He had been different then.

“No less than I deserve,” Snape murmured deliriously. “Fifteen points for Gryffindor.”

Sirius went to retrieve materials from the bathroom cupboard, and when he came back Snape was quietly reciting Livius’s Meditations of the Occlumens. “ _Nothing is good or bad without first being determined so by the mind. Pain cannot touch the mind. Fear is subservient to the mind. No wall can imprison the mind_ ….”

Sirius vanished the other man’s robes, painfully aware that he was the last person Snape would wish to invade his privacy this way.

“ _The body is the vessel and the anchor of the mind_ ,” Snape intoned. “ _The mind is both one and multiple_ ….”

Sirius wet a cloth with essence of dittany and applied it to the first wound. “No,” Snape said when the dittany stung his collarbone, his eyes opening wide in terror, but upon seeing Sirius he closed them and relaxed.

“ _The mind has many rooms_ ,” Snape repeated to himself as Sirius continued his task, “ _Memories half-forgotten and secrets long locked away. In these natural protective barriers lies the power of the Occlumens. The Occlumens must divide himself from his weaknesses. The Occlumens must divide himself from unfulfilled desires…_.”

Sirius gently guided Snape onto his front, and the patient obeyed passively. “ _The Occlumens must not permit a thought that could become a weapon to his enemy_ ,” he said. “ _The Occlumens must place his trust in the strength of his mind_ ….” Sirius concentrated on each wound one at a time.

At last Sirius had bandaged the last long gash and helped Snape turn over. “With luck they won’t scar,” he said, not certain whether Snape would hear or care in this state. “ _A scarred mind is a protected mind_ ,” said Snape before Sirius poured a sleeping draught down his throat.

 

**March 1976**

_“What’s this Snivellus’s got?” James’s shadow fell across the bench where Snape was sitting._

_It was Sunday afternoon, and Snape should have been studying for the OWLs—usually would have been, in fact; he would never know how James had guessed that he wasn’t. But James had that preternatural ability to be an ass at the most inopportune times, and he snatched Snape’s notebook away._

_“No!” Snape pleaded, and instantly knew it was a mistake to let James see that it was getting to him. Stupid. He glanced nervously around the quad._

_“Merlin’s pants, it’s a poem!” James exclaimed, as though he couldn’t believe his luck. A crowd was starting to form—mostly Gryffindors, but a few Ravenclaws, too._

_“Unbelievable! What are you waiting for? Give us an oration, mate,” Sirius said from the sidelines. Sirius was here, too, then, Snape thought, and supposed it didn’t actually matter._

_James nodded. “Ahem.” He stood up straight and adopted a professorial tone. Snape began to feel nauseous. And James began:_

_Your dazzling smile, like sunlight, breaks the dark_

_Where in the shadows watching you I hide._

_“Could it be?” James addressed the crowd with mock delight. “Is Snivellus in love?” They all laughed, and Snape wished he could disapparate. James went on in mock sorrow, with dramatic, vaudevillian gestures:_

_My suff’ring soul forever bears your mark_

_And everywhere I look I see your eyes—_

_“Christ, Snape, it’s bloody atrocious!” Sirius interjected._

_“Yeah,” Peter added inanely. He was clearly nervous talking in front of so many people. “What kind of qu-queer writes poetry anyway?” He stuttered over the name that Snape liked even less than the others he was called._

_“Now, now, Peter, be nice”—Sirius held out a hand to silence the laughing crowd—“or else Snape won’t let us hear the rest.” As if Snape could possibly refuse. “Don’t you want to hear what happens next to Snivellus’s suff’ring soul?” The cluster of students chuckled and quieted, and Snape wished he could have that kind of power over people._

_James went on:_

_You hate me still, but yet you turn to him,_

_One who deserves you even less than I._

_He’s smug, a daft and heartless, mindless jock—_

_A Gryffindor, the type epitomized._

_You waste yourself in his admiring crew,_

_And I, likewise, will waste myself on you._

_James’s delivery grew more and more melodramatic as the poem carried on, and by the final line he fell into a theatrical swoon. Peter and Sirius caught him; like everyone but Snape, they were laughing. Snape concentrated on clearing his mind to keep himself from blushing. It was the latest useful application he’d discovered for Occlumency—and he hated it when they could see he was ashamed._

_“So, suff’ring soul,” James addressed Snape, “who’s it about? What lucky chick is on the receiving end of your eternal passion?”_

_“Eternal stalking, more like,” Peter suggested hesitantly._

_James gave Peter a little encouraging nod. “Yeah, who are you watching from the shadows, Snivellus?”_

_Snape had learned by now that it was better to say nothing. The giggling crowd began to disperse._

_“I bet we can figure it out,” Sirius said, and everyone turned back toward him. Snape willed his mind blank again, forced his shoulders to relax. Sirius carried on, “I mean, the cocky Gryffindor bastard has got to be you, James. Mindless jock? Smug and daft? Snape’s got you pegged, I’d say.”_

_Sirius was grinning, but James’s expression darkened as he drew his own conclusions. He turned toward Snape with hard eyes, shoving the paper in his face. “Is this about Lily, you greasy little worm? Is it?”_

_Snape said nothing, and let nothing show in his face._

_“Answer me, Snape.” James’s tone of voice suggested a kind of violence that Snape had not yet experienced at school. Silence wouldn’t work this time._

_“Yes,” he said, “it’s Lily,” and when James punched him he was relieved._


	2. The Error Bred in the Bone

**Two: The Error Bred in the Bone**

 

When Snape woke he remembered it all—the irreparable moment when he had lowered his guard, the certainty of failure as he felt the Dark Lord slice into his true thoughts.

He remembered days running together in the dark, stinking cell as he learned to identify them by their footsteps: Bellatrix, Lucius, Avery. _Crucio_ , they said, _Sectumsempra_ , they said, but don’t let him die, first he must tell everything. He made false memories and lied earnestly with real tears streaming down his face, but having seen the extent of Snape’s abilities, the Dark Lord was wiser now, and Snape had not been clever enough.

He remembered the attack by the Order. He had been confused, unable to follow the exchange of curses or recognize the faces made out dimly by the light of spells. And he had been furious, too, that they would risk so many lives just to retrieve him. Didn’t Dumbledore trust him to hold out until death?

He remembered gratitude, too, when Dumbledore placed him in a soft, warm bed and left him to the first gentle hands he had felt in … it seemed he could not remember how long. He had let go of all the reasons why he shouldn’t enjoy it, and even the sting of the dittany had been less significant than the soft, deliberate handling of the bandages against his skin.

That had been wrong, a moment of weakness; Snape turned away from the thought.

“Snape?” Snape turned his head toward the door—wincing as the skin near his collarbone pulled taut—and saw Sirius poking his head around the doorframe. He was, in Snape’s begrudging opinion, as dashing as he ever was, with more muscle to his shoulders and more life in his expression than he’d had in the year of his escape. He looked most uncomfortable with the idea of entering the room.

Snape was suddenly aware of how unpleasant he must be—unwashed, his hair still matted with blood, his body crossed with half-healed wounds. He repressed the childish desire to pretend he was still asleep. “Are you planning on entering, or should we have Kreacher pitch you a tent in the hall?”

“Right.” Sirius stepped in and stood awkwardly before Snape. “So. How are you feeling?”

Stupid question; Sirius always had been thick as a post. “Marvellous, really. I thought I might nip down to the Hogwarts quidditch pitch and have myself a bit of a jog.”

“Right.” Sirius took a tentative step toward him, and Snape noticed he had a bottle in one hand and a box of bandages in the other. “I spoke with Madame Pomfrey through Phineas’s portraits, and she says one more application of dittany should do the trick. Thought we’d best get it over with.”

Sirius swept his shaggy hair away from those bright grey eyes, a nervous gesture that somehow intensified Snape’s desire not to be seen—or worse, touched—by him. “Fine. I’ll take those and do it myself.”

“Is that so? And how do you think you’re going to bandage the middle of your own damn back?” Without a retort, Snape could see no other option but to roll onto his stomach and let Sirius peel back the sheets.

Snape remembered all the things they had called him at Hogwarts—pasty, greasy, pansy Snivellus—and he clenched his teeth against the humiliation of lying here like this in front of Sirius.

“Stings a bit, yeah?” said Sirius, a falsely cheerful attempt to diffuse the awkwardness.

“It’s fine,” Snape snapped.

The process took much longer than he would have wished, and there was, surprisingly, no pain. As he grew used to the embarrassment his body began to betray him, responding to Sirius’s deft touch and the close proximity of his warm body as he knelt on the bed, his knee pressing against Snape’s thigh.

He thought he could feel breath against his neck as Sirius muttered a charm fastening the bandage over Snape’s shoulder blade. As Sirius’s hands moved downward, barely touching his tender skin, then pressing more firmly to secure the bandages, Snape found himself wishing …

No. Wrong, wrong, wrong. He built walls around the thought, and pushed it to a distant place in his mind.

“That’s this side done,” said Sirius finally, and Snape found himself quite unable to turn over without adding to his humiliation. Did his body have no self-respect?

“Just leave everything. I’ll do the rest myself,” he snarled harshly, wrapping the blankets around his lower half and snatching the dittany from Sirius’s hand.

“You know what, that’s fine. Suffer up here all alone, if that’s what you want, it’s no bloody difference to me.” Sirius tossed the bandages onto the bed as he left. “I’ll send Kreacher up with some dinner.” He shut the door a little too loudly, and Snape heard the muffled sound of Walpurga’s awakened portrait beginning a tirade on the floor below.

Snape ripped the network of old bandages from his chest. He was fine to do this on his own.

 

Snape was used to spending a great deal of time alone, but two days in bed nearly drove him mad. His chief entertainment consisted of books summoned at random from the shelf in his room, with occasional breaks to eat the appalling and unidentifiable slop that Kreacher cruelly insisted was food. He was, therefore, relieved when he woke on the third day to discover that he was now quite strong enough to walk, and that his lacerations had more or less healed.

The first step was to shower. Snape found a bathrobe in the closet and padded toward the bathroom, pleased to discover a generously sized claw foot tub surrounded by heavy curtains. Say what you might about the Black family, he thought, this house must have been lovely once.

Contrary to—perhaps, in fact, because of—speculations that had followed him as both a student and a teacher at Hogwarts, Snape was more fastidious than most about this sort of thing. But after everything he had been through, anyone would have gloried in the cleansing feel of the hot water. Snape just stood for a minute, letting it run over his skin, before he began to wash the blood out of his hair. He did it by hand, without magic, a small means of reclaiming his body as his own.

When at last the water ran clear instead of pink—by which time it was beginning to grow cold anyway—Snape dried and dressed himself in his own robes, which someone had placed in the closet in his room. The next step was food; damned if he was going to eat another one of Kreacher’s inhuman suppers.

Snape hadn’t been made potions master for nothing, and he considered cooking to be merely another facet of the same art of creative exactitude. As he descended the two flights of stairs—a surprisingly exhausting task, he was forced to admit—he felt fully confident of his abilities to make something delicious from whatever he found in the Black family kitchen.

Sirius was in the kitchen already, sprawled in a rickety chair and engulfed in a huge ragged bathrobe. He was fiddling with and cursing at what appeared to be a Muggle wireless. “Having trouble?” Snape asked wryly.

Sirius glanced up, startled. “Oh. You’re up already.” He didn’t seem too pleased about it. “This damn Muggle technology, I don’t know how Arthur manages.”

Snape was not practiced at small talk, so they remained for a while, Sirius fidgeting with the radio, Snape staring in his direction, as the silence stretched into unbearable awkwardness.

“Right then,” said Sirius. “Maybe I’ll head upstairs for a bit.”

“Don’t be absurd; I can cook perfectly well with you in the room.”

Sirius laughed that barking laugh that Snape remembered so well from their teenage years. “Good luck with that. Kreacher’s seen to it there’s nothing fit to eat in the entire bloody house.”

Snape opened the fridge and surveyed its entire contents: a distressingly mouldy cheese, a wizened half pepper, and a dubious lone egg.

He remembered when Sirius’s laugh had been part of a host of others. It brought to mind one of those inane chants he still got stuck in his head sometimes. _Snivellus Snape, shrivelled up ape, greasy and grimy and dressed in a drape …_ Oh, the rapier wit of the average Hogwarts fourth year.

Determined to have something fit to eat, Snape placed the rotten food deliberately on the counter. He could work with it.

Dust flew into his face when he opened the spice cupboard. The basil was more dust than usable herb, but he added it to his pile of questionable ingredients. _Slimy and slick, he makes the girls sick, his wand is the same shape and size as his—_

“Would you be quiet!” Snape snapped. The radio was rewarding Sirius’s attempts at repair with loud and random bursts of static.

“I just _offered_ to take it upstairs. Make up your bloody mind, will you?” Sirius snatched up his wand and his radio and bounded out.

There. Now he could concentrate on the task at hand. Wizards tended to underestimate the difficulty of transfiguring food, but Snape knew that the sense of taste could be extraordinarily sensitive to any remnants of the food’s original flavours. He cast an anti-putrefaction spell on each ingredient, employing the _gemino_ charm to increase the quantity of eggs.

When the eggs hit the hot pan, they smelled just right. Snape tried to concentrate on the simple pleasure of a task properly done, but, with Sirius Black one floor upstairs, his thoughts could never be simple.

It had been this way since the first time he saw Sirius—not the day they met on the Hogwarts Express, but a day several years later, fourth year in fact, when Snape had really _seen_ him for the first time. Stepping onto the grounds, Snape had looked up to see Sirius a short distance across the lawn, barefoot in the grass with Lupin and Potter....

 

_Sirius was laughing, an easy, harmless sort of laugh that Snape had heard from him before. If the breeze ruffled his hair as he threw his head back casually, if the sun shone on his bare throat, drawing attention to the graceful line of his chin and the swell of his Adam’s apple, Snape realized, none of it was intentional. What Snape had thought was an act—a ploy to solicit the admiring looks that even now Sirius was ignoring from the girls around the courtyard—was something real. It was a lithe, buoyant energy that was physical, certainly, but was surely more than that, too. It was an aura he carried. Snape felt struck by it, permeated by it, and satisfied, for the moment, just to be near to it…._

_“The hell are you looking at, Snivellus?” James challenged, and Snape realized that he was staring._

_“Run along,” added Sirius dismissively. He could have no idea how painful that was to Snape, of course, but Snape very much doubted that Sirius would have cared._

_It certainly wasn’t that Snape didn’t realize how cruel Sirius could be. The barbed comments, the carefully timed shoves in the hallway, the creative and humiliating use of spells that defined Snape’s daily existence at Hogwarts had begun in first year, and Sirius had been part of them almost since the beginning. It was that now Snape understood it all, in one instant of stunning insight. Sirius’s thoughtlessness, even his calculating unkindness, were the overflow of an immense energy—his restless mind, his blithe youthfulness, his appetite for contact with the world._

_Snape understood, but did not forgive him. He hated Sirius. Only Snape’s body glowed with an unfamiliar yearning that was wonderful—and unbearable—a feeling he refused to name—_

_“Seriously, Snape, what are you bloody staring at?” When James spoke, Snape realized that he’d been standing there for a very long moment with Merlin only knew what stupid expression on his face. And then he felt the logic of his situation, that someone so beautiful would never find him worthy of consideration. He felt ugly to the bone._

 

Snape found, as he was portioning it onto his plate, that he’d made enough omelette for two. Without looking too deeply into his motivations, he carried the plates up to the dining room where he could hear Sirius cursing amid the static.

A floorboard creaked as Snape entered the room, and Sirius looked up at him suspiciously. It was, Snape noticed, quite a bit warmer up here, and Sirius had divested himself of the bathrobe. The Muggle t-shirt he was wearing looked like it had been around since the First Wizarding War. It was worn soft, with faded text that Snape couldn’t make out, and it hugged the lines of Sirius’s lean body in a way that Snape found quite distracting.

“It’s The Clash,” Sirius said.

“What?”

“My shirt. The band on my shirt. You were trying to read it, yeah?”

Snape must have been staring; would he ever learn to control these tendencies? “I couldn’t possibly care less what is on your shirt. I made too much food.” He set the plate precisely in front of Sirius. “Eat it, throw it out, wear it as a hat, I don’t care what you do with it.”

But Sirius wasn’t paying attention; he closed his eyes and breathed in. “Christ, it smells good,” he groaned. He picked up the fork Snape had provided in his big, agile hands and took a generous mouthful. He swallowed and grinned widely at Snape. “It might just be the contrast with Kreacher’s so-called cooking, but I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

Snape found himself grinning back. He didn’t want to—praising an omelette did not make up for years of being a smug and vulgar bastard—but he felt so warmed by that smile.

“Are you planning on sitting down, or should we have Kreacher set you a table in the doorway?” Sirius raised his eyebrows and Snape realized that he was standing there with a plate of eggs and grinning like a simpleton.

Enough of that. Snape sat, and they ate.

 

 


	3. All Those Grievances, All Those Griefs

**Three: All Those Grievances, All Those Griefs**

And so the days at 12 Grimmauld Place settled into an awkward sort of rhythm of silences. Snape made miraculous concoctions out of whatever unfortunate ingredients Kreacher had scrounged, and they ate together in the large, empty dining room. Sirius would praise the meals effusively, but after that there never seemed to be much to say, and Snape sat stiffly as their cutlery scraped against their plates and the dining room clock ticked.

Otherwise, they avoided each other by mutual unspoken agreement. Sometimes they would pass in the hallway and one would ask the other, “Any news from the Order?” The answer was always no. Sometimes one would surprise the other working on some task in one of the common rooms, and would simply duck out without saying a word.

It was unbearable. When he was alone, Snape could hardly stand the monotony of life in the dark, dusty house with—for the first time in his life—nothing at all required of him. And when he was with Sirius, the tense boredom that resulted from their seeming inability to converse was maddening. But sometimes all he could think about was the past, and then he loathed Sirius, and had nothing worthwhile to say to him. And other times, he wanted to speak, but he didn’t like the feeling he got when Sirius met his eyes—he got flustered, and he lost track of his thoughts, and it wasn’t right.

If only there was something _useful_ to do.

 

Snape was idly poking around in the dining room cabinets when he found a gramophone. Better yet, the adjacent cabinet was full of records that would provide some respite from the endless silence. He put one on and the room filled with the light and elegant sounds of Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 1. Snape sat at the table and leaned back into his chair, relaxing as his mind skipped along with the music. He let his frustrations fall away and the melody replace his thoughts. He drifted …

And suddenly was brought back to reality by a loud and unpleasant crashing sound coming from the upstairs. What could Sirius possibly be doing that required him to make that much noise?

As he angrily ascended the stairs and the sound became clearer, Snape realized that it was—for lack of a better word—music. He was seething by the time he reached the drawing room.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” He shouted through the door.

There was no response; Sirius probably couldn’t hear him through that racket. Snape burst through the doorway, shouting again, “I said, what in God’s name are you _doing_?”

“Hey Snape!” He shouted back, and smiled hazily. He held a paintbrush between his fingers like a starlet with a cigarette holder, and viscous black paint was dripping down his wrist onto the floor. It was all over his jeans, too, and there was a fingerprint smudge just above his eyebrow.

He approached Snape, waving the paintbrush dangerously close to Snape’s robes, and shouted confidentially over the noise, “I’m painting moustaches on the illustrious family tree of the noble house of Black.” He giggled, and winked at Snape. “Want to join me?”

No, Snape did not. The noise was unbearable. And the room smelled very odd, like—

“Are you _high_?” Snape yelled incredulously. Then he spotted the radio in the corner and went to turn it down—not quite off, but very, very quiet. Relieved, Snape could now focus all his energy into an accusing glare.

“Finest Wizard Weed available, courtesy of Tonks.” Sirius ignored Snape’s expression. “Would you like some? I would’ve offered before, but I figured you’re not the type—and besides, you know how things are a bit …” He giggled nervously.

Snape had never been offered drugs before, but he’d formed his opinion about them long ago. “No, I do _not_ want to sit here with you dribbling paint all over myself and numbing my intellect until I think the cracks in the ceiling constitute a personal message from the ghost of Grindelwald. I came up here to ask you to _turn down your radio_. It sounds like the raucous drivel the sixth years are endlessly playing in the Slytherin common room!”

Sirius threw himself into his most infuriating laugh. “You sound like Professor Crumb. Remember him?” He put on the professor’s curt Oxbridge accent: “‘Turn off that drivel at once, gentlemen! I’ll have silence in the common room!’ I can’t believe Dumbledore let that old crank teach Arithmancy.”

Snape had actually been rather fond of Cecil Crumb; he’d always kept order in his classes, and he appreciated a dedicated student. The rest of Hogwarts had been a glorified popularity contest, but Professor Crumb had recognized Snape’s abilities. And later….

Sirius scratched his temple, leaving another fingerprint above his eyebrow. “Can’t say I was at all surprised when he turned out to be a Death Eater, the sadistic bastard.”

Snape had been there when Voldemort had killed him. “I would have thought that you of all people would know better than to speak ill of the dead.”

“Is he dead, really?” Sirius said distractedly, then paused, widening his grey eyes in innocent alarm. “You weren’t friends, were you? I mean—”

“Death Eaters don’t have _friends_ ,” Snape said coldly. “Now if you could please keep the volume civilized, I’ll leave you to—whatever it is you’re doing.”

Snape was seething as he stalked down the stairs, his robes billowing behind him. It was exactly like Sirius to assume that just because Professor Crumb liked a little bit of order, just because he wasn’t interested in insipid things like motorcycles and pinup girls, just because he’d rather read a book than play a round of quidditch—that he didn’t deserve even a modicum of respect. Well, not everybody was exactly like Sirius Black, and Sirius could very well learn to accept it. Cecil was dead, for crying out loud.

Snape restarted the Brandenburg Concerto, but now its soft tones grated on him. He sat down anyway and tried to relax.

And the god-awful noise started up again! If anything, it was louder this time. In a moment of immaturity, Snape cast a modification of _muffliato_ up the stairs so that Sirius couldn’t listen to _his_ music either. Snape could have cast an imperturbable charm, of course, but he didn’t; instead, he sat there revelling in anger at Sirius’s _nerve_ , turning the volume back up when he had been specifically _asked_ to be _reasonable_. The man was a cretin. And now what was that obnoxious buzzing sound?

Unbelievable! He’d cast it back! Snape’s own spell! “ _Definio_ ,” Snape spat with a precise flick of his wand, and the buzzing ceased. “ _Accio radio_ ,” he added, and gritted his teeth against the intolerable noise, which grew louder as the radio approached. When it appeared in the doorway he cast a silencing bubble on it and settled himself.

He spent a few self-satisfied moments sitting primly and listening to Bach, but then he was distracted by a fluttering sound. A flock of canaries careened out of the hall and landed on his head and arms, where they began to preen his hair in the most irritating fashion. As he tried vainly to swat them away, he noticed out of the corner of his eye the silenced radio floating serenely out of the room.

“ _Finite incantatum_!” he exclaimed; the birds vanished and the radio crashed unceremoniously to the ground, where, the silencing bubble having burst, it spewed forth the sounds of some drug-addled maniac screaming incoherently over a poorly tuned electric guitar.

Speaking of drug-addled maniacs, there was Sirius now. “What is your sodding problem?” he drawled, leaning against the doorframe. “Can’t you cast a bloody silencing spell like a normal person?”

“Cast a silencing spell? A _silencing spell_?” Snape shouted over the blaring radio. “That’s just like you—do any obnoxious thing that strikes your fancy and expect everyone else to put up with it just because you’re—you think you’re so— _charming_! This isn’t Hogwarts anymore; you can’t get by on good looks in the real world, and I’ve learned a thing or two, I know how to defend myself, so just try it why don’t you, just try and walk all over spineless Snivellus. Well maybe you’ll find I’ve grown up a little since seventh year.” He raised his wand to duelling height, fuming.

Casually, without changing position, Sirius flicked his wrist so that his wand pointed toward the radio. “ _Clarus_ ,” he said, looking Snape directly in the eye, and the music grew even louder.

“Hilarious!” Snape screamed, but his voice was swallowed up by the sound; then he realized that of course he knew the counterspell. “ _Tacitum_ ,” he whispered, and the radio quieted.

“Oh, no, Merlin forbid that anyone should have a little fun. You’re right, you know, we’re not at Hogwarts anymore, but you’re still exactly the same, aren’t you? Bloody black cloud of righteous, stuck-up misery spreading boredom all over the place. _Clarus._ ”

“ _Tacitum_. _I’m_ the same? _You’re_ the same conceited, self-involved, frivolous, asinine, superficial—”

“ _Clarus_.”

“ _Tacitum_ —witless philistine bully—”

“ _Clarus_.”

“ _Tacitum_ —obsessed with your cheap thrills and your reckless—”

“ _Clarus_.”

“ _Tacitum_!”

“ _Clarus_!” Overwhelmed with contradictory magic, the radio spewed forth a tower of flames, and the fire began to lick its way up the wallpaper. “ _Aguamenti_ ,” the two men said in unison, dousing the wall with jets of water as the radio continued to play—quietly—in the background. Hand-eye coordination, however, was not Snape’s strong point, and as the fire hissed and died he accidentally sprayed a jet of water in Sirius’s face.

“Are you kidding?” Sirius spluttered. At this moment, Snape did not feel particularly inclined to explain that it had been a mistake—but he began to wish he had when Sirius shot back, giving Snape a face-full of icy water.

“ _Aguamenti_!”It was more of a reflex than anything, really, when Snape fired another stream in Sirius’s direction, but it only soaked the carpet; Sirius had dived behind the dining room table. But he poked his wand above the tabletop and fired, catching Snape on the shoulder as he, too, took cover on the table’s opposite side.

“Are you quite finished?” Snape asked as he tried to squeeze the water out of his robe.

“Come out and see,” Sirius taunted. After a moment of silence, they rose simultaneously, slowly, with their wand arms extended, and began to circle the table. This was unspeakably juvenile, and Snape was incredulous at himself, but there had been something satisfying about catching Sirius by surprise, and he wanted to do it again. And there was something about the gleam in Sirius’s eyes that was also quite pleasing….

Sirius feinted to the left, but Snape could read him easily and took the opportunity to splash him square in the chest. But the way the wet shirt clung to Sirius’s body was rather unexpectedly distracting, and Sirius got Snape right between the eyes. As Snape leapt away from Sirius’s raised arm, he nearly knocked an antique teapot from a china cabinet.

“Careful, now,” Sirius warned, laughing, as Snape wiped the water from his face.

“Precious Black family heirlooms?” Snape asked drily, smirking.

“Good point.” Sirius sidled over to the fireplace and deliberately swept a porcelain vase off the mantle. As he watched it shatter, looking proud of himself, Snape took the opportunity to sneak up behind him and squirt cold water down the back of his neck.

Things sped up after that. Sirius chased him to one end of the room; Snape chased Sirius back; Sirius attempted to use a chair as a shield; Snape covered himself with the drapes. Soon the drapes were soaked, the chair was broken, and Snape and Sirius were breathless, facing each other inches apart, their wands still raised and _aguamenti_ on their lips.

“We’re both entirely drenched,” Snape observed, still not lowering his wand.

“True,” offered Sirius, unmoving. His bangs were slick with water, Snape noticed.

“Truce, then?” Snape suggested. He could almost feel the warmth of Sirius’s body; they were very nearly that close.

“On one condition.” Sirius smiled mischievously.

Snape still couldn’t seem to catch his breath. “What’s that?”

“Admit you had fun. Frivolous, foolish, stupid fun.” He poked Snape lightly with his wand to emphasize each word.

“I certainly did _not_ ,” Snape said stiffly, stepping out of Sirius’s reach. This had gone too far.

Snape regretted for a moment the disappearance of the other man’s smile as Sirius dropped his wand arm. “Of course you didn’t.” He passed Snape as he stepped around the table to leave.

On his way out of the room, Sirius paused in the doorway. “At Hogwarts. We were all stupid kids back then, weren’t we?” he said, his back to the room. “Doing stupid things for stupid reasons.”

Snape had done his share of those, too. “Am I expected to take that as an apology?”

Sirius turned to meet Snape’s eyes. He grinned warmly and lifted his wand to point at the still-smoking radio. “ _Clarus_ ,” he said, and disappeared up the stairs.

 

**February 1978**

_Snape did not do this sort of thing, not usually, not at Hogwarts. There was hardly any privacy here, and Snape hated the obviousness of it, of hiding under one’s blankets in the dormitory, of disappearing into the lavatory during studying hours. He could always tell when the other boys did it; it would have been funny how smug they were, thinking they had escaped notice, if the whole thing hadn’t been so unseemly._

_But sometimes, despite his conviction that Seventh Year really was too old for such an adolescent form of self-indulgence, it had to be done. With NEWTs on the horizon, anything that interfered with his concentration was simply unacceptable._

_The best way was to wait until everyone in the dormitory was asleep; he could be very quiet and was fairly sure he had never woken anyone. The more serious problem was keeping his mind on track._

_He started half-heartedly with Lily, sometimes, or with another girl he knew—Bellatrix or one of the other Slytherins. He tried to picture them naked, in costume, in all sorts of positions and doing all kinds of things. But it was never enough, and, if he was honest with himself, he knew it wouldn’t be._

_Eventually he moved on to Regulus or one of the boys in his own year, and sometimes that was enough. Easier, too, to imagine a body he’d seen in real life, in the shared Slytherin showers, and one that was more like his own—he could almost feel what it would be like, how another boy would sound, how Snape would know just where and how to touch him, and he would know too—_

_But usually it ended the same way, with Sirius. As soon as Snape gave in, everything felt clearer, more real, and more precise. What it would be like to kiss him—Sirius was a little bit taller, and his chin would be rough with the perpetual stubble he always seemed to have. His large hands would be warm on Snape’s back, and gentle on his cock, and Sirius would quiver under Snape’s slender, expert fingers. Would Sirius fuck Snape, moaning and spending himself with total abandon, or would he want Snape to be on top, would he pull at Snape’s hair as Snape ravished him completely? Or, instead, would he let Snape taste his cock, would he taste like salt and musk, would he come, pulsing, into Snape’s warm mouth—_

_After Snape came, he immediately vanished the sticky mess it left behind, but he still didn’t feel clean. He hated the sensation of reality rushing back, as he remembered every wrong thing he’d allowed himself to think, and all the reasons it was wrong to think that way._

_Then Snape would stare into the darkness and listen to the sleep-breathing of the other boys in his dorm, assuring himself that no-one was awake. And he would make resolutions. Snape would not do this again; if he did, he would think about women next time; and never, never again would he think about Sirius._

_And mostly, he didn’t. It wasn’t the sort of thing he did. Not usually._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of gratitude to everyone who has left comments or kudos! It's very kind of you, and lovely to hear when people are enjoying the story so far. Constructive criticism is welcome too. And in any case, thanks for reading! :)


	4. The Eye of a Little God

**Four: The Eye of a Little God**

 

Snape did not drink. He was perfectly confident, however, in his ability to make excellent firewhiskey. What he was less certain about was his reason for making it in the first place. It was a means of passing the time, he supposed, and he expected that, when the rest of the Order came for meetings, they would appreciate having something to drink. Something, that is, other than the weak, lukewarm tea provided by Kreacher, which tended to have little bits of twig floating in it and always tasted inexplicably of eucalyptus and dirt.

It seemed that the distillation acceleration spell Snape had developed was working as he had guessed, and the batch would be ready to bottle in three hours and thirteen minutes, give or take. He was fiddling with the condenser when he heard noise from downstairs.

It was probably Sirius, having found some new and obnoxious way to entertain himself in the dining room, but Snape poked his head out of his bedroom and peered down the stairs.

It was Dumbledore! He was halfway through the front door, struggling with what appeared to be a rather large board. He paused and noticed Snape at the top of the stairs. “Severus! I’m so very glad to see you recovered so well. Might you be willing to come down the stairs and help an old man with this blasted thing?”

“Of course, Headmaster.” Snape descended the stairs quickly and took the board from Dumbledore’s shoulders; it turned out to be a full-length mirror, and a rather heavy one at that. He leaned it against the wall, reflective side in, and turned to face Dumbledore. “Is there news from outside?”

Dumbledore waved a hand dismissively. “I’m afraid I haven’t the time, Severus.”

Snape barely succeeded at concealing his frustration. “Then what did you come here for?”

“I have a task for you and Sirius.” Dumbledore looked around as though he had only now realized Sirius was absent. “Where is he?”

Just then, Sirius bounded down the stairs. Breathlessly, he shouted “Dumbledore!” and grinned openly at the headmaster in a way that Snape thought was really too familiar given Dumbledore’s position of authority. “Any news?”

Dumbledore gave Sirius a small smile. “No, no, I’ve brought a better gift than that—something for you gentlemen to _do_!”

Snape waited expectantly and noticed Sirius tense with excitement beside him. Could it be—finally a mission? Would they finally get to leave this dismal house and accomplish something _important_ for the Order?

“I’m quite aware of how difficult it must be for you—especially people like yourselves—to be locked up in a dreary place like this while the struggle continues outside.” Snape began to feel quite hopeful. “Of course it is out of the question for you to leave the safety of this building now”—Snape’s emotions deflated abruptly—“but in fact I have a task for you that can be completed only by a talented witch or wizard such as yourselves, and only within the confines of a protected space. It may be, I believe, a task crucial to the outcome of the final battle we all know is coming.”

This was outrageous! “Surely, Headmaster, you’re not wasting your time by coming all the way here with a make-work project to entertain two grown men!”

“I assure you, Severus,” Dumbledore responded coldly, “it is nothing of the sort. I have brought you”—he paused with an air of great importance—“the Mirror of Erised.” He did not seem to notice when Snape involuntarily backed into the dining room. “I have reason to believe that, while he was at Hogwarts, Voldemort placed an enchantment on this mirror to conceal an object of great value to him—something similar to the way that, as you may recall, I used the mirror to safeguard the philosopher’s stone, although, one would imagine, to far more sinister purpose.”

“What kind of object? What kind of spell? How do you know this?” Sirius seemed quite eager, but Snape’s sole interest was to keep as far from the mirror as possible.

“I have little more to tell you, I’m afraid. This much I have guessed based on rumour—and my knowledge of Voldemort’s relationship to the mirror while still at Hogwarts. I can surmise, however, that given the nature of the mirror’s power and Voldemort’s skill as a Legilimens, it is quite likely that psychological magic will be the key to the enchantment.

“I have also performed a little enchantment of my own that may help the two of you combine your efforts.” Dumbledore glanced at them both, looking rather pleased with himself. “As you are no doubt aware, normally the Mirror shows a different reflection to every viewer. This, of course, will not do if the two of you are to concentrate on producing the same image, so I have modified the Mirror to show only one thing at a time, to everyone who stands before it.”

“So it no longer shows your heart’s desire?” Sirius asked, puzzled.

“No, no.” Dumbledore waved a hand dismissively. “It shows the heart’s desire of whoever is standing nearest.”

“This is preposterous!” Snape spluttered, panicking. “As if I would allow this—this—philistine fleabag access to my deepest desires? Do you have any idea what you’re asking?”

“Oh, please!” Sirius turned on Snape. “As if I care even the tiniest bit what you see when you look in the Mirror of Erised. Do you think that, for the sake of the entire wizarding world, you might possibly consider _getting over yourself_?”

“It isn’t—I won’t do it.” Snape crossed his arms, aware that he was being unconscionably childish. “I mean, I’ll do it alone, but I won’t work with him.”

Dumbledore gave Snape a reproachful and disappointed look that made him feel quite like a misbehaving Hogwarts student. “I’m afraid I do not have time to help you two resolve this—whatever this is. But I would like to impress upon you the importance of this task, and my hope that _neither_ of you”—he cast a glance toward Sirius—“will allow any personal quarrels to interfere with it. Now, if you will excuse me, I must return to Hogwarts. I will leave the Mirror with you.”

The door clicked shut behind Dumbledore, and Snape was left alone with Sirius and the Mirror. “Well, I guess we’d better get on with it,” Sirius said, and reached forward to move the Mirror.

“Don’t touch it!” Snape snapped, more forcefully than he had intended.

“What is your problem?” Sirius sounded at least as curious as he was angry, and he let the mirror rest. “Are you really that worried about what the mirror will show?”

“It’s private,” Snape answered tersely.

“It’s bollocks,” Sirius said. “As if any person actually has one single ‘heart’s desire.’ People are so much more complicated than that. I want back the twelve years I spent in Azkaban; I want Voldemort to die a slow and torturous death; I want Harry to grow up with his own parents; and I’d kill to leave this bloody prison of a house and have a pint in a pub without Kreacher breathing down my neck. How’s a mirror going to tell which one of those things I want slightly more than the other ones, and even if it could, what would it matter?”

Snape didn’t know what to say.

“Okay. Let’s just get this over with.” Sirius spoke slowly, and calmly, as if coaxing an animal. “I’ll show you mine …”

He turned the mirror around, and Snape froze. But it was alright—Sirius was closer to the mirror, and the image it showed was of James, Lily, and Sirius laughing together, with Sirius holding the hand of a younger Harry. Harry had a bunch of balloons clutched in his other hand, and the sun was shining.

Typical. Snape snorted.

“What?”

“Exactly what I would have expected. He’s been dead for more than a decade, and everything is still always about James Potter.”

“He’s my best friend. Was.”

“He was arrogant.”

“Sometimes,” Sirius said fondly.

“And foolish.”

“Sometimes, like everybody.”

“And cruel.”

It seemed Sirius was about to yell at Snape, but instead he said quietly, “Have you ever considered what people would think of you, if _you’d_ been murdered a couple of years after graduation?”

Snape had nothing to say to that.

“Anyway, it’s your bloody turn.”

It was out of the question. “Absolutely not! It’s too much to ask, to give up this last little bit of privacy! I already have to spend every day trapped in this godforsaken house with _you_ , with your atrocious music and your hair in the sink and your _dog hair_ all over the furniture. And your disgusting smelling wizard weed. Every day you’re lounging about in torn jeans and t-shirts that are _literally from the 1970s_. And do you ever stop _humming_? Or chewing on your quill? You fidget when I’m trying to read and you are incapable of sustaining a conversation of a higher intellectual order than motorcycles or sandwich toppings. I thought I hated you before I came here, but you are so much more obnoxious than I could have imagined. And now I am expected to share my secrets with you?”

“Have you ever even _tried_ to have an actual conver—oh, never mind. It’s not worth the trouble, is it?”

“If you would be so kind as to go upstairs,” Snape said, regaining his reserve, “I will carry the Mirror into a spare room.”

Sirius raised an eyebrow. He was right; Snape couldn’t possibly haul the Mirror up the stairs.

“With magic, obviously.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Just stay there for a minute.” Sirius lifted the mirror, apparently effortlessly, and carried it out of Snape’s sight. Snape heard heavy footfalls on the staircase, then Sirius shouted down a sarcastic “all clear!”, and a door slammed. Snape was safe.

 

Later, when night had fallen and Grimmauld Place was dark, Snape stood outside Sirius’s door and listened to confirm that Sirius was lightly snoring. Careful to keep his footsteps quiet, he padded over to the spare room where he was reasonably sure Sirius had put the Mirror. The door creaked as he opened it, and Snape froze momentarily, listening, but there was no sound to suggest that Sirius had awakened.

It would be different now, Snape was sure. He had changed so much—and lost so much—since the night he had stumbled across the Mirror as a teenager at school. It would show him with Lily, or teaching Defence against the Dark Arts, or defeating Voldemort singlehandedly. It would not show him now what it had shown him then. 

Nonetheless, Snape kept his eyes focused on the ground as he approached the Mirror. As he raised his eyes, his stomach sank.

It was the same. They were older, of course, but it was the same terrible thing he had seen at Hogwarts all those years ago. It would have been easier to comprehend, somehow, if it had been a lurid image, if they had been having sex, or even kissing. But it wasn’t like that—well, you got the impression it could become that way at any moment, but in fact at this moment they were holding hands, and gazing at each other blissfully, without the slightest care for anything that might be going on outside their tiny world within the Mirror.

It was the expression on his own face that Snape hated the most. He would never make those eyes at anyone, and never wanted to; why would the Mirror show him that way with Sirius?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and for your generous feedback!


	5. Wine, Poetry, or Virtue

**Five: Wine, Poetry, or Virtue**

 

Snape was an idiot. It was an absurd thing, what he was doing, standing in front of Sirius’s bedroom door, holding a bottle of firewhiskey, about to offer Sirius company he didn’t want and an apology he didn’t deserve.

And yet he knocked. There was a long pause before Sirius opened the door a crack, and Snape guessed from his mussed hair and bathrobe that he’d been asleep. “What?” he inquired groggily.

By way of answer, Snape held up the firewhiskey bottle. Sirius’s face lit up. “Why Snape, you scoundrel, you _do_ know how to have a good time. Just a minute.” He let the door fall open, and Snape noted with distaste that the bedroom looked like a teenager’s, with crumpled sheets and laundry all over the floor. Sirius added his bathrobe to one of the larger laundry piles and wandered around the room, shirtless, rooting around for something clean to wear.

He really had put on a bit of muscle since Azkaban. Snape turned his gaze out toward the hall. He was so intently focused on the wallpaper that he was actually surprised when Sirius brushed past him, leading the way to the drawing room.

Sirius plunked himself down on a divan, summoned a pair of scotch glasses, and gestured for Snape to join him and pour the firewhiskey.

Snape sat down but didn’t pour. “It’s not for me,” he said stiffly. “I don’t drink.”

“You _what_?” Sirius turned to him, genuinely dismayed.

“I don’t drink. It clouds the mind.” The divan smelled faintly of wizard weed.

“I think that’s rather the point of it, Snape. Did you have something important to do this evening, that you’ll be needing all your faculties in perfect working order?”

Snape realized he didn’t, and for the first time the thought was almost pleasant. “You’re right. It won’t matter if I have one drink.” He poured what he thought was a reasonable yet modest quantity for each of them.

Sirius waited until Snape was finished, then took the bottle from him and poured again, more than tripling the amount in each glass. He then brought out his wand and cooled each drink with a charm. He did this slowly, like a ritual he had performed many times.

“Cheers.” He lifted his glass to Snape, and Snape responded shyly with the same.

The first experimental sip was … intriguing. The firewhiskey tasted smoky and a little sweet, spicy and complex. When he swallowed he was surprised to feel its warmth travel all the way down his esophagus and come to rest in the pit of his stomach.

“Christ, Snape, do you know this is bloody premium stuff? You never do anything half-assed, do you?”

The compliment glowed inside him like the whiskey.

 

Snape poured a couple of generous glasses. “The bottle’s half gone,” he observed with distant concern.

“We can make more, can’t we?” Sirius’s hand brushed Snape’s as he took the glass.

“Oh, I’ve got a cauldron full.”

“Then I completely fail to see the problem.” He raised his glass. “To the Order, and to absent friends,” he said.

Snape raised his, too, thinking of Lily. “To the Order, and to absent friends.”

There was a pause as they both remembered those absent. And, to be honest, while Snape took a moment to observe the slight spinning of the ceiling.

“Do you believe in heaven?” Sirius was on the floor, with his head resting on the couch.

Snape snorted. “I believe in hell.”

“D’you get to have one without the other?”

“Do you know a single person who would deserve to go?”

Sirius thought for a moment. “Lily,” he said softly. “But do you really?”

“There has to be. With all the … events that take place, all the evil things that people do. No one ever gets what they deserve in this world. But it must happen somewhere—or else what is all of this _for_?”

“That’s just it, Snape—maybe it isn’t _for_ anything. If there were a heaven and a hell, then someone—or something—would have to be there to judge everyone. And to make judgments like that, surely that being would have to _care_ , at least a little, about people. Nothing in my experience suggests there’s such a thing as a being like that, not with that kind of power.”

“But Pheberus Grindelsneer’s thirteenth theorem of magic regeneration clearly demonstrates—”

“—That the mechanism for continued replenishment of magical abilities necessarily depends on the existence of immortal souls.”

Snape was shocked; Grindelsneer’s _Physics of Magic_ had been hard going even for him, and it wasn’t on any Hogwarts curriculum that he knew of.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised; I’m not just a pretty face, you know.” Sirius winked teasingly at Snape. (Snape, of course, did not blush; why would he?) “I _can_ read. I’m not saying we don’t have souls, just that Grindelsneer doesn’t prove anything about what happens to them—and neither does anyone else. Maybe the afterlife is just some endless abyss, or maybe it’s another world something similar to this one. Or maybe none of the powers-that-be bothered to set anything up for us, and your soul just wanders the mortal world, some invisible half-echo of the person you used to be. I don’t know. I just think that if we’re hoping that some all-powerful God is going to sort everything out, we’re shit out of luck on that one, ’cause either nobody’s out there or nobody cares.” He poured himself and Snape another round.

Snape’s head spun, and he began to remember why he didn’t drink. The universe felt cold, and large, and empty, and he felt like a tiny, fleshy, vulnerable thing completely unequipped to confront it. He was glad of the warm, lit room, and of Sirius’s presence there. He accepted the drink and raised his glass. “To a world without justice,” he said, sardonically.

Sirius raised his glass, too, with a small smile. “To fighting anyway.”

 

“Hey, you’re spilling the whiskey!” Sirius slurred, and Snape was slightly dismayed to realize he had overfilled his glass, wasting the last drops in the bottle.

“I made the damn whiskey, didn’t I?” he muttered. “Stop complaining.”

“And fucking delicious whiskey it is.” Sirius swallowed. “ _Was_. And I am grateful for it.” He put a warm arm around Snape.  

“You have very large hands,” Snape mused. They were, with wide palms and a guitar player’s calluses. There was an ink stain on Sirius’s index finger.

“Yeah, I know, I’m totally out of proportion. Used to think I’d grow into them.”

“No, I think they’re nice—I mean fine.” Snape winced; could he be more inappropriate? “I mean, not disproportionate.”

Sirius was oblivious. “Remember that time in sixth year when Cecily Crimpwinkle tried to give herself bigger tits and expanded her hands instead?”

Snape laughed; Cecily had called him Snivellus, and once she’d swapped his quill for an exploding one. “It took a whole week for that spell to wear off.”

“And she wore gloves the whole time, as though that could possibly hide the fact they were twice as big as Hagrid’s!”

“You know she only cast that spell because you and James told her she looked like two aspirins on an ironing board.”

Sirius withdrew his arm. “Neither of us would have said that.”

“You certainly would. Did.”

“You must have heard wrong.”

“I didn’t just hear about it; I was there. Remember, that year there was a formal at Easter? She had this horrible tight velvet dress, and she’d conjured her hair to look like it was full of butterflies, only most of them turned out caterpillars instead. She asked you to dance, and you laughed at her, and James said—”

“Yeah, you’re right, I didn’t want to dance with Cecily Crimpwinkle.”

“You were an _asshole_.” He poked Sirius in the shoulder for emphasis.

“What’s the big deal that I didn’t want to dance with a girl whose hair was infested with illusory bugs?”

 “Because this is what you _do_! You toss off these—these lines, and then you forget about them, but the people you say them to carry them around for the rest of their lives!”

“You said _James_ —”

“It doesn’t matter which. The pair of you, cheering each other on, laughing at each other’s stupid jokes, you picked a few kids at random and it was all a bit of fun for you, but it made us miserable.”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion.”

“You knew how much power you had and you loved it.”

 “We were just stupid kids.”

“It was you who made up that song, wasn’t it? You and James?”

“What are you talking about?”

“ _Snivellus Snape, shrivelled up ape_ ,” Snape said bitterly. “ _Greasy and grimy and dressed in a drape_.”

“No, no, it was the younger Gryffindor kids. But I was there, in the common room.”

“Did you laugh?”

“What was I supposed to do, Snape?”

“Tell them to shut up and go to hell!”

“Oh yeah, that would have gone splendidly. The only Gryffindor from the Black family is supposed to stand up and defend a Slytherin? _I_ knew all the answers in class, _I_ was from a family everyone knew practiced the dark arts, I thought that if they were going to pick someone to call a pretentious little queer dark wizard boy, then I should be bloody grateful they picked you and not me. So I joined in, of course I did. And then it turned into a habit, and James was so—”

“You were a coward.”

“I was a kid.”

“A coward.”

“Fine. You’re right. I was. I didn’t see any particular need to be brave until Azkaban, I guess.” Sirius picked at a loose thread on the divan. “I _am_ sorry, you know.”

“I know.”

Sirius fidgeted with his empty glass.

“To your credit,” Snape said, “there was that time you stopped James from beating me up.”

“Oh yeah, when you wrote that godawful poem about Lily.”

“It was terrible, wasn’t it? Wasn’t about Lily, though,” Snape said and immediately regretted it.

“What do you mean, it wasn’t about Lily? But it was such a dead ringer for James—‘smug, a daft and heartless, mindless jock,’ I still remember—and besides, you said so yourself that it was her.”

“I lied.”

“Oh, come on. Who else could it possibly have been, that you would rather have told James you’d written a sonnet to his bloody one true love? And everyone knew how close you and Lily were.”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Why not? What could it possibly matter now?”

“Because it was wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?”

“It was someone I shouldn’t have loved.” Snape cursed himself—and firewhiskey—for speaking again. “Wrong to love.”

“That can’t be true. Actually, I don’t think it’s ever wrong to be in love. Sure, sometimes it’s wrong to do anything about it, but love in itself—it’s just a beautiful feeling, isn’t it?”

“Oh please. That’s bleeding-heart hippie bullshit.” Snape was surprised to hear himself using words his father used to use. “Of course some kinds of love are wrong.”

“Like what?”

“Like—queers.” He couldn’t have come up with a more distant example?

“Are you saying that poem was about a bloke?”

“No, no, of course it wasn’t,” Snape said quickly. “I’m just saying that’s an example of the kind of love that’s dirty. That just shouldn’t exist, that shouldn’t ever be thought about, or talked about, or admitted to. The kind of love a person should be ashamed of.”

“Is that really what you think?”

“About queers?”

Sirius cringed. “Could you stop using that word?”

“Queer? You just used it. You called me a pretentious little queer dark wizard boy.”

“I was trying to make a point. And I didn’t _call_ you that, I said that’s what they thought you were.”

“Queer, queer, queer, queer, queer,” Snape said, just to be contrary. He was starting to feel a bit nauseous. “I’ll call it what I like. It’s disgusting. Those people are disgusting.”

“Do you agree with Voldemort, then?” Sirius said coldly. “You know he wants to round them up with all the mixed bloods and the Muggle-borns.”

“Well, that seems a bit too far.”

“ _A bit too far?_ ” Sirius stood up, wobbling a little. “Just a little bit? You should have stuck with the Death Eaters—I had no idea you were so bloody good at hating people.”

Snape opened his mouth to retort, but threw up on the coffee table instead.

 

Snape opened his eyes halfway and closed them immediately. It was a disgustingly cheerful morning, and the obnoxious sun poured in through his open curtains. He rolled over with a groan.

There was some sort of sporadic banging noise going on downstairs. Snape tried to shut it out, but it was getting louder, and then there was a loud crash he could not ignore. Grumbling, he forced himself out of bed, fastened his robe, and staggered out into the hall, preparing some choice words regarding a vat of boiling oil and how people should be punished for undertaking household construction projects before noon. He opened the door to the drawing room, where he thought the sounds had come from.

He felt it in his body before he knew what he was seeing. There was a tightness in his skull like something about to pop, and the room seemed to contract. He didn’t breathe; there was no air.

The coffee table was split in two, the doors of the cabinet hanging open. Records lying everywhere, some cracked beyond repair. The firewhiskey bottle in scattered shards.

Sirius lying on the floor, glassy-eyed and grey. Not breathing.  

Snape had seen people killed this way before. It looked like _Avada Kedavra_.

 


	6. A Leap in the Dark

**Six: A Leap in the Dark**

 

They were under attack. Obviously. He should get a message to Dumbledore. And there were things Snape needed to defend—the Order’s records, the Mirror….

These things were important, he knew, but for precious seconds he did not move. He thought of all the things that never would be again: Sirius never again putting on a record, or leaving Grimmauld Place, or smiling the broad smile he’d bravely retained through a decade in Azkaban. His warm presence in the world reduced to a few photographs.

And then there was the thing that never would be at all—the thing that Snape would always, always see in the Mirror of Erised.

Snape’s ears rang. The body was so rigid, so indelible, so unreal.

There was a footfall in the hallway, and Snape realized he had not brought his wand. He turned to face the intruder, expecting to die.

But there, at the door, was Sirius. Snape did not know what to think. He saw Sirius stride forward toward his own body, which, as he passed Snape, transformed into the image of Azkaban. “ _Riddikulus!_ ” Sirius shouted, and the building shifted into a representation of Hogwarts, then vanished.

Snape was an idiot.

Even with this headache—a hangover, he supposed—he should have recognized a boggart. Now, glad of his training in Occlumency, at least he managed to maintain his composure. He did not, as he was afraid he might, rush over to Sirius and embrace him, or break down in uncontrollable, humiliating tears.

“You all right?” Sirius glanced toward Snape with obvious concern, but looked away quickly. “Clever boggart, that, to impersonate me. You must have thought we were under attack,” Sirius said, not meeting Snape’s eyes. Since his wand was still out, he vanished the broken bottle and repaired the coffee table.

“Most unusual,” Snape agreed. He doubted Sirius was really unaware that a boggart had no such flexibility regarding the form it took—that it always appeared directly in the shape of the viewer’s worst fear. It was the sort of thing most children would know.

His hands shook as he gathered up the scattered records. “What happened here, exactly?”

“I got a message from Molly Weasley this morning, and she thinks we should have a bit of a gathering this weekend.”

“And you were so distraught you decided to trash the place and release a boggart?” Snape was beginning to feel quite giddy.

Sirius laughed. “No, Kreacher’s been breaking all the plates, so I got my parents’ chest of old china out of the attic. As it turned out, some Cornish pixies had moved in. And a boggart too, apparently.”

“Good Lord. Does the whole house look like this? When are they coming?”

“On Saturday—so that gives us two days to clean the place up. Harry, Molly, Arthur, and the kids, Hermione, Lupin, Tonks, Mundungus, and Dumbledore. Fourteen, including us!” Sirius could barely contain his excitement.

“Fourteen?” As much as Snape abhorred the very idea of dinner parties, he was unable to rein in an exuberant smile. “We’re not going to have to play charades, are we?”

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun. Besides, aren’t you dying to see a face around here that’s friendlier than Kreacher’s?”

 

It took the full two days, but they had everything ready in time for Saturday dinner. After the night they’d shared the firewhiskey, Snape had expected Sirius to be angry. Instead, everything was easy between them as they repaired, tidied, dusted, and polished together, all the while trying to evade Kreacher’s continual attempts at sabotage.

Each evening they discussed the Mirror, sharing theories and devising possible approaches. Snape was impressed with how much Sirius already knew about Legilimency and related wizardry, and even more so with how quickly he picked up everything Snape told him. And he was grateful that Sirius never pressed him to experiment on the mirror together, even though they both knew it would have made things a great deal simpler.

Sirius had insisted on beginning Snape’s education in popular music while they cleaned the place; Snape would never be a fan of The Clash, but he had to admit that Led Zeppelin and the Rolling Stones were interesting. Possibly also David Bowie, who they were listening to on Saturday afternoon, while Sirius did the chopping and Snape did the more delicate work of roasting, sautéing, gravy making, and baking dessert. He loved cooking like this, and it wasn’t just the joy of working with the fresh ingredients Molly had sent over.

Beginning precisely at five, the visitors appeared on the doorstep singly and in pairs. Sirius let them in, requested the necessary passwords, and soon everyone was gathered around the dining room table with a butterbeer or a firewhiskey cocktail in their hands. Sirius basked in the presence of so many people, but Snape remained glued to the kitchen until the food was ready. They might be on the same side of a war, but as he listened to the raucous laughter emanating from upstairs Snape felt profoundly aware of the fact that these people were not his friends.

Eventually he could put it off no longer, and Snape carried the main course up. Ron laughed out loud when he saw Snape emerge in an apron, but soon quieted when he saw what Snape was carrying: an enormous, perfect pork roast. Snape summoned all the other dishes upstairs—fluffy mashed potatoes, applesauce, peppercorn gravy, Yorkshire puddings, carrots with coriander, peas with mint, horseradish, mustard—and the guests applauded.

“Did you boys do all this?” Molly asked, amazed.

“Snape did everything,” Sirius said, almost proudly. “He wouldn’t even let me near the stove.”

Ron and Harry eyed Snape disbelievingly. As all other eyes were on Snape, Mundungus took a slice of pork and slipped it into his sleeve.

Snape took his seat at the table, and the ritual of passing dishes began. When everyone had filled their plates, the company urged Dumbledore to give a toast.

Dumbledore stood. “To togetherness and bright occasions, even in the darkest times.” He looked at Snape. “I am lucky to know such good and brave witches and wizards as all of you, and wish you all to know that, even as your sacrifices are many and, as yet, unnoticed by the rest of the magical world, you are honoured and loved by the people at this table. To the Order!” he exclaimed, raising his butterbeer, and sat down amid the clinking of glasses.

“Let’s eat,” said Fred and George simultaneously, and everyone lifted their forks.

 

“—And there I am, covered in seaweed and pustulent boils,” Arthur concluded a rather self-deprecating story, “while James and Sirius waltz out the other side looking fresh as roses, not a scratch on ’em. And of course there’s this big crowd of seventh-year girls standing right there—they’d been watching the whole thing. Those two always did have a way with the ladies.”

“Of course,” Molly reminisced, “your father, Harry, only had eyes for Lily. But Sirius had a new girl every week. Rumour has it that he ran out of girls in his own year and had to start going with the older ones,” she teased.

“The younger ones, too,” Snape added dryly.

“Actually,” Sirius said quietly, then paused, and deliberately set down his glass. “Actually, I think I might have given you all a misleading impression at Hogwarts.” He swallowed. “Actually, the only Hogwarts student I ever really kissed was Remus.”

Snape dropped his fork.

All the cutlery halted, and the room was silent—except for Dumbledore, who continued slicing up his Yorkshire without the slightest pause. Tonks turned toward Lupin with an intrigued and delighted expression.

Lupin flushed bright red. “I think you’ll recall I punched you in the face.”

Sirius grinned, a little falsely. “I probably shouldn’t have tried it so close to your transformation, should I?” There were a few nervous laughs around the table. “That’s not really the point, though. What I’m trying to say—I had a talk with a friend the other night, and I realized it’s important to say it—is that I’m gay.”

Molly looked flustered. “Sirius, there are children here!”

“That’s part of the reason I’m telling you. I wish someone had done something like this when _I_ was their age.”

Dumbledore did pause then.

“Well, I think it’s very brave of you,” said Hermione. “The wizarding world is decades behind the Muggle world in terms of these kinds of basic rights. It’s awful! I mean, you don’t even have same-sex witch or wizard union, do you?”

“Thanks, mate,” said Ron through a forkful of mashed potatoes. “Maybe you’ve finally got her off the subject of house elves.”

“Hermione’s absolutely right,” said Tonks, and raised her glass in Sirius’s direction.

“Suppose so,” Lupin muttered, still blushing.

“None of our business, really, is it?” Arthur said with false cheer.

“Right on, Sirius,” Fred and George said in unison. “D’you think you could pass us the Yorkshires?”

The conversation drifted back to the food, but Snape barely registered the stream of lavish praise. What Sirius had said—it didn’t make any difference, of course. If Sirius liked men, that certainly did not entail any particular feelings about Snape—and even if he did, Snape had always been committed to resisting those impulses. He could only imagine what his father would have said, if he knew Snape was even thinking about it.

Only, nobody at this table seemed particularly upset. Molly and Arthur were somewhat subdued, and Mundungus seemed in fact to have snuck out, but Sirius’s revelation had passed without any of the shouting—or violence—Snape would have expected. It seemed that Slytherins and Death Eaters thought quite differently about this sort of thing than the members of the Order.

There was no reason for it, but Snape smiled as he went to take the pies out of the oven.

 

After dinner, Snape was on his way to Kreacher’s attic hideout, trying to formulate loophole-free instructions for the house elf that would result in clean, unbroken dishes, when he heard Sirius’s voice coming from the drawing room. He hadn’t noticed Sirius going upstairs, and, guiltily, he paused on the landing to eavesdrop.

“So, what I said downstairs—are you okay with it?” Sirius sounded nervous.

“Well, yeah.” It was Harry Potter; of course Sirius would want a moment alone with him. Snape felt more strongly than usual the pang of irrational jealousy that the boy always provoked.

“I mean,” Potter continued, “it’s a bit weird, you know, because I thought you were one thing and now it turns out you’re something else? I’ve seen your bedroom, with the Muggle girls on motorcycles pinned up on the walls.”

“I’d have taken those down long ago, except for the permanent attachment charm,” Sirius said, and chuckled. “I was a fourteen-year-old git, but I did a bloody good job of that spell.”

“I just—I don’t mind if you’re—if you’re gay, but why did you wait so long to tell everybody?”

“It’s just not something wizards talk about, Harry. Or at least, it wasn’t when I was your age. Is it different now? At Hogwarts, I mean?”

“I don’t know, I don’t think there are any gay students at school.”

“Oh, I’m sure there are. So not any different then.”

There was a pause. “Um, so, you and my dad—did you ever—um—”

“God no, he was my best mate!”

Snape relaxed, though he knew it was ridiculous to care.

“Besides, you know he only ever had eyes for your mother. Hey, did I ever tell you about the time we stole a crate of firewhiskey from Slughorn’s office and tried to kidnap Lily out of study hall?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter will be coming next week....


	7. One Little Room, an Everywhere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This chapter will be the last, but I'm working on an AU Sirius/Lupin story at the moment (it won't have magic, but it will have werewolves); if you think that might tickle your fancy, you might want to put me on author alert or check back in a couple of months. (Or, if shameless depictions of kinky vampire sex are more your type of thing, my story "The Monster and I" is already online, under the same author name, on fanfiction.net.)
> 
> If you care to know, the epigram beginning the first chapter and the title for that chapter are from Mark Strand's poem "The Next Time." Other chapter titles are from the following poems, in order: W.H. Auden, "September 1, 1939"; Sarah Arvio, "Wood"; Sylvia Plath, "Mirror"; Charles Baudelaire, "Get Drunk"; Arthur Koestler quoted in Roberta Hill Whiteman, "Leap in the Dark"; John Donne, "The Good Morrow."

**Seven: One Little Room, an Everywhere**

Snape did not continue looking for Kreacher, and he did not go downstairs to say goodnight to their guests from the Order. Instead, he slipped into the spare room, closing the door behind him gently, with a quiet click.

Snape lit the single candelabra. There was nothing in this room but cobwebs, a wood floor with a thick, dusty rug, and a pile of boxes. And the Mirror, leaning against the wall. Snape took a deep breath and stepped in front of it.

There he was, and there was Sirius. They looked just as they did now in the real world, except for those most important details—their joined hands, and the look of promise on their faces. Snape looked at them, and the longer he stood before their image the more it seemed almost possible, even almost real; and he allowed himself to admit that he wanted it to be true. He could barely stand it, in fact, he wanted it so much.

He thought about what he had said to Sirius, the night they drank the firewhiskey. He had said that Sirius was disgusting, that he should be ashamed, that his love was wrong—of course he hadn’t known he was talking about Sirius. But was it true, all the same?

Snape recalled those moments when he had failed to recognize the boggart, when he had thought that Sirius was dead. Snape hadn’t felt like someone who had escaped a temptation, who had successfully resisted doing wrong. He had felt like someone who had missed his chance.

There was a light knock on the door. It was Sirius, sounding tired. “Everyone’s gone. Just thought I’d let you know.” Snape heard him begin to move away.

“You can come in, if you like,” Snape said, without meaning to, wishing he could swallow the words back as he said them.

“Are you sure?”

Snape’s heart raced. He could still take it back. He tried and failed to keep his voice level. “Only if you want to.”

The door creaked open, and light from the hallway passed over Snape’s face, then receded again as the door clicked shut. Snape did not look at Sirius, and his body stiffened as he concentrated all his will on staying in this spot, in front of the mirror, to let Sirius come close enough to see. He heard Sirius’s footfalls approach.

“I don’t think it’s working; I only see our reflections,” Sirius said, and then, quietly, “Oh.”

Snape did not think he could continue to breathe.

Snape and Sirius stood there, side by side. In the mirror, they held hands and faced each other; in the room they kept their eyes on their own reflections and did not touch.

Then Sirius turned toward him, and reached out. His hand was larger than Snape’s, rougher and warmer, but gentle as though unsure. Snape gripped it only slightly, afraid to hold it too tight, but his skin was electric with all the possibilities it signified. He felt close to trembling.

He looked up toward Sirius, terrified he would find him laughing, or bored, but Sirius’s eyes were sincere, studying Snape’s expression.

On the edge of their vision, they saw a movement in the mirror: mirror Sirius brushing a lock of hair from mirror Snape’s face.

“Did you do that?” Sirius whispered.

Was he controlling the mirror? “I don’t know,” Snape whispered back, and looked down, shyly. Hair fell into his eyes, and Sirius reached up to brush it away.

Then the men in the mirror kissed, and Snape said, “I think I might be.”

“That’s amazing,” Sirius said, and slid a hand to the back of Snape’s neck, pulling him close. He tasted like cherry pie and firewhiskey, his lips soft and his cheeks rough against Snape’s face. Sirius’s fingers tangled in Snape’s hair; he took Snape’s bottom lip gently between his teeth, and Snape made an embarrassing noise, but Sirius answered it with his own low moan and Snape felt it directly in his groin. They kissed less softly and more furiously, but it wasn’t enough, and when they broke apart, gasping for air, they looked toward the mirror and saw skin on bare skin.

Sirius glanced to Snape for permission, then resumed kissing Snape’s neck voraciously as he grappled with the buttons on his robe. Snape melted as Sirius’s stubble brushed the soft place underneath his jawline.

Then the robe fell away, Sirius pulled away to look at him, and Snape suddenly remembered that he was scrawny and pasty, and that he had gone to great lengths to ensure that no one ever saw him like this.

But Sirius simply ran a hand down Snape’s lean arm, and let the hand rest warmly on the small of his back, guiding him closer. “You’re beautiful,” he said without a trace of irony, and Snape, full of gratitude, nearly believed him.

Sirius’s soft gray T-shirt came off quickly, and Snape found he could not resist the impulse to touch. Sirius let Snape trace the firm contours of his chest, and rewarded him with small sounds of pleasure; Snape kissed his way down until he found himself on his knees, at eye level with the fly of Sirius’s jeans.

He reached out to unfasten the button, but found he could not. He wanted to see Sirius’s cock—to touch it, especially to taste it—but it felt like some boundary he could not cross, some rule he could not break was staying his hands. He paused too long, angry at himself for thinking he could get away with something like this—and angry at himself for failing. He was about to apologize, to make an excuse and leave, but then Sirius was on the floor with him, and warm arms surrounded him, and Snape leaned into the close, soft, solid feeling of Sirius’s skin against his back. Sirius kissed the top of his head.

“Show me what’s next,” he whispered, his breath tickling Snape’s ear. “Use the Mirror.”

It was easy; all Snape had to do was relax, and the mirror showed them lying together, the full length of their bodies pressed against each other. In the mirror, Snape was on top, so Sirius leaned back on the rug. He raised an inviting eyebrow and smirked at Snape, but his breathing was shallow and he swallowed nervously; Snape could tell how anxiously Sirius wanted him. And so he crawled up Sirius’s body to kiss him, and their legs intertwined, and Snape could not help rocking his body against Sirius, to feel the rough texture of his jeans and the hard thickness that pressed into Snape’s own thigh. He wanted to touch Sirius everywhere, to map and know every detail of his skin from hips to shoulder blades, fingertips to collar bone.

“Severus,” Sirius gasped, and Snape wanted to hear that sound again, so he resolved his will and snapped the button on Sirius’s fly, lowered the zipper and reached in. It was firm, smooth, dry, and so very warm, but wet at the tip. And Snape discovered he needed to know what that tasted like, so he lowered himself and, steadying Sirius’s cock with his hand, he licked a droplet of the sweet-salt liquid. Sirius grasped Snape’s arm in a way that reminded him that, if Sirius had ever been touched this way before, it would have to have been before Azkaban.

Snape was surprised and pleased by the way Sirius’s shape fit so naturally against the roof of his mouth. He explored it with his tongue. He sucked and Sirius moaned softly, so he did it again, and again, in a way that he hoped was expert—or at the very least good enough—until Sirius’s hands were in his hair and Sirius was saying, helplessly, “Severus—I can’t—I’m going to—” which was what Snape wanted; and when Sirius pulled away Snape didn’t understand, thought he had done something wrong. But Sirius said gently, “Not yet,” and his eyes flicked toward the mirror, and everything was clear.

Snape did not have to look because he knew what it showed. “Are you sure?” said Sirius, with something like wonder in his voice. And Snape was terrified, of course he was, but he was also sure—intensely sure—that it was what he wanted, and that if he could face Voldemort then he could face this. He nodded, just once. Sirius moved behind him, and for a moment Snape felt alone, but then Sirius’s hands were on him again, massaging him, and there were kisses all over his body, and then—oh, Christ—a strange, wet, delicious feeling—and when he realized Sirius’s tongue was _there_ , Snape was overwhelmed with mortification, but the sensation also overwhelmed him; he could feel its electricity all over his skin, almost too intense to tolerate, but it made him want so much more.

Sirius muttered a spell that—as Snape judged from the strange feeling it caused—must be for lubrication, and Snape knew that Sirius must have done this before. The thought made him jealous, but it also relaxed him a little, to know that Sirius knew what to do. Sirius kissed the space between Snape’s shoulder blades before slowly, slowly pressing in one finger—and Snape gasped; this much he had done before, himself, on guilty nights when no one was there to see, but this time it was different, giving up control to Sirius’s larger, unfamiliar hand. But Snape trusted him, and Sirius worked his fingers smoothly, and it seemed not long until Snape was desperately ready, until he could not stop himself from begging, “Sirius, please,” and he was ashamed to admit he needed it so much. Then Sirius turned him over to kiss him ferociously, and when Snape saw the hungry look in his eyes he knew that they were feeling it together. He wrapped his legs around Sirius’s body.

There was a moment, when Sirius’s cock touched him, that Snape panicked—it was too big; what if people found out; this was dirty; it was disgusting; it was wrong—but he looked up at Sirius and saw the attentive way he was watching Snape, looking to see what would make him feel good, waiting patiently but desperately for a sign to continue. Then Snape realized that as much as he wanted this for himself, he also wanted it for Sirius, and so he concentrated, relaxed, and pushed back to let him in.

At first, it ached in a way that was only half pleasing, and then it was all pure, delicious sensation, and Snape could feel every infinitesimal movement Sirius made; and when Snape moaned he could feel Sirius twitch and expand inside him. Their movements were slow, and soft, until Snape pulled Sirius closer to show that he wanted more, harder, and Sirius obliged, and reached down to grasp Snape with his warm, dry hand—and Snape’s mind emptied of everything except Sirius, and his own body’s pleasures unfolding.

When he came, it felt like falling apart, but it also felt like becoming whole.

  

**June 1996**

 

 _Sirius Black listens to the muted, bustling tick of the clock on the nightstand, its rhythm blending with the regular sound of Severus breathing in his sleep. Sirius likes to see him like this, his features soft and defences laid aside. His smooth hair has fallen across his face, and his extended arm is wrapped around Sirius’s middle. He looks so vulnerable, so careless this way, but Sirius knows better; knows, for example, that a few weeks ago Snape discovered how to place on himself a suspended_ Avada Kedavra _curse—one he can enact with only a thought—so that when he is next needed he can fight Voldemort without the risk of being captured alive. Sirius knows, too, that without Snape’s connection to the Mirror of Erised it would have taken much longer for them to retrieve the mysterious map that Voldemort had hidden there by enchantment, just as Dumbledore suspected. They have given it over to Dumbledore, of course, but he has not explained what it means, what could possibly link the marked locations—Little Hangleton, Sirius’s house, Gringott’s, Hogwart’s, and one mark that moved._

_Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimes the hour._

_Until recently, Sirius had fully expected to die in the course of this war, and he thinks that Severus had, too—but it seemed that they had less to live for, then. Now, he very much hopes to survive it, and to make a home with Severus, in this house or another; perhaps they will get a motorcycle, or a dog, and perhaps Harry will come to stay in the summers. Sirius has the money to take Severus anywhere, to make their lives whatever they want, when the war is over._

_Of course they will still give their lives for the cause if they have to, but maybe not quite so freely, not quite so willingly as they would have when it had seemed their lives weren’t good for very much else._

_Sometimes, Sirius has a dream that he is falling from the land of the living into the land of the dead, that he tries to stop the descent but can’t because he is so heavy—his body is tied up in chains and weighted down by the corpses of his friends. He used to dream that he fell straight through the veil, like plunging into water, and landed in a colourless place where his dead friends stared at him with empty eyes and opened and closed their mouths without speaking. In the dream, he wandered there for years. But now, when he dreams that dream, sometimes he doesn’t fall all the way; sometimes Severus catches him._

_Tonight, Snape and Sirius will receive a message, and when they learn that Harry Potter is in danger there will be no stopping either of them from going to the Department of Mysteries to defend him. That place is full of danger, and the Death Eaters are very strong, and the most likely thing is that Sirius will die in the fight. But maybe—just maybe—he will fight just as bravely but not quite as recklessly as he would have, if it weren’t for Snape fighting with him, and that will make the difference._

_Sirius, of course, does not know what is coming tonight, but he has a plan for the day ahead. He will not wake Severus, but will stay here until Severus wakes on his own. He will not let Severus out of bed until they have made love, even though Severus will be shy about it and will want to shower first. Sirius may let him up after that, but only so they can have breakfast, and then they will go back to bed and they will talk until they are ready to make love again. Severus is reluctant to tell stories from his past—especially ones in which he was brave—but Sirius will coax them out of him, and will tell stories of his own, from the years before Azkaban. And maybe later they will put on a record, or play a game of wizard chess (Severus may be an excellent strategist, but Sirius can more than hold his own). Or they will read together, sitting with their limbs entwined and sharing passages that are particularly funny, or interesting, or wonderful._

_All over the house, the clocks are ticking. Snape and Sirius have about twelve hours until the message reaches them._

_Severus opens his eyes._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Some wonderful generous person has nominated this story for the HP Fanfiction Fan Poll Awards (Category: Sirus x Anyone - Best AU)! If you're interested in voting for the awards, head over to their website at http://hpfanficfanpoll.livejournal.com/. Anyway, thanks for reading! :)


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